Tuesday, 25 August 2015


The flower bud kept telling the bees
Every day
To come home tomorrow
For soon it would bloom;
I tell the clock and make promises
To hours that one day soon
I will go on a date with time
And do all the things I love to do,
It will just be the two of us
And I shall be present in whole
With my body and soul.

But life for now, is a set of tomorrows
That my today keeps leaning towards
And time keeps slipping
Through my busy typing fingers.

Sunday, 23 August 2015

 Poor fat pregnant monkey looking for some food
Poor fat pregnant monkey needs to now look after two
Poor fat pregnant monkey hunts all over the floor
Poor fat pregnant monkey finds some but needs a lot more
Poor fat pregnant monkey can’t find the father anywhere
Poor fat pregnant monkey searches for someone who will care
Poor fat pregnant monkey begs and pleads for bread
Poor fat pregnant monkey wishes she was dead
Poor fat pregnant monkey doesn’t know what to do
Poor fat pregnant monkey might as well go blue
Poor fat pregnant monkey has no other way out
Poor fat pregnant monkey no one listens to her shout
Poor fat pregnant monkey quietly begins to steal some grain
Poor fat pregnant monkey it helps soothe her pain
Poor fat pregnant monkey needs more solids in her tummy
Poor fat pregnant monkey is about to become a mummy
Poor fat pregnant monkey scares the people away
Poor fat pregnant monkey will face the consequences some day
Poor fat pregnant monkey sees them coming with stones
Poor fat pregnant monkey felt the hurt in her bones
Poor fat monkey no longer searches for food
Poor fat monkey puked away everything that she chewed.

Saturday, 15 August 2015

An Ode to Whitey

Do you know they’ve started calling you
Whitey-bitey these days? Does it seem like there is
An invisible collar around your neck now
With those words inscribed across, in CAPITALS
And everyone can see it, but only you feel it
Tighten across your throat every time you jump
On a seat to sleep and the people hastily walk
Away or scare you with their fancy multi-purpose
Umbrellas; do you feel it glue onto your skin
Because nobody notices how calm you’ve been
Since that incident 3 weeks ago, they still think
You’re that scary dog; do you find it hard to breathe
When everybody cuddles with pretty Coffee over
There and you try to remember what is was like
To be scratched beneath your ear; and at nights
Do you cry at how suffocated you feel because
You have this invisible collar tighten around your neck
And do you sometimes get angry and show your
Teeth and raise your paws to get rid of it
And do people look at you and say-
Stay away from Whitey-bitey,
Seems like he’s gonna bite someone again.

Thursday, 13 August 2015

There was once a very young tree
Who had not yet understood
How to grow; but he smelled of fresh leaves
And the insides of his barks had not yet formed
Infinite circles, and the outside felt like
He always wanted a hug;

There was once a young tree
Who was beginning to understand
How to grow, and how it tormented his soul
For the sky called out to him, and so did
The grass, and he wanted to stretch high up
And far and wide; but oh, how that hurt.

There was once a tree learning how to grow
Who kept stretching here and there, and he
Always wanted more leaves on his skin
To look pretty, and deeper roots to never forget
Where he came from, and higher branches
So that he could spend more time with
All the birds he’d admired.

There was once a growing tree, who
Was so scared of getting old,for he feared he
Would no longer be able to do all the things
He was was so sure he could; and his leaves would
Fall, his branches would grow bald, and all the
Skies he had reached would shrink and he’d
Start mixing with the ground, and all the
Ants and termites would invade his skin
And start chewing him away from deep within
And the grip he had made with underground
Like fathers holding their young children
Would start to loosen a bit, and for the
First time in his life he would feel what it’s
Like to be scared that he’ll fall, and all his
Bird friends would have their own children
And move to a new house; and he’d sometimes
Think that maybe the humans too want him out
Of their pretty postcard picture.